


The Wife's Fever

by elvntari



Series: Canonverse Tolkien [3]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Amicable Divorce, Developing Relationship, Divorce, Emotional Infidelity, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied Sexual Content, Lesbians, Loveless Marriage, Marriage of Convenience, Nudity, POV Female Character, POV Lesbian Character, POV Original Female Character, Relationship Problems, compulsory heterosexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 06:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18959698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elvntari/pseuds/elvntari
Summary: Maglor's wife realises 1. she might not be as straight as she thought she was and 2. she might be a little in love with his best friend.





	The Wife's Fever

When she had gotten married, Calima had expected, or rather, had hoped that the butterflies would come later. Everything had been so perfect. Her dress, shimmering gold and red--the colours suited her well (she never wore anything else)--her hair pulled back into an elaborate network of braids, adorned with golden pins tipped in ruby and amber. When she looked into the mirror that morning, it had not helped her nerves to realise that she was more attracted to herself than her groom.

She recalled, with some horror of hindsight, that she had considered arranging the event in such a way that she could consummate her marriage in front of a mirror. She wondered if she’d be able to enjoy herself anyway.

She’d been horrified at that thought at the time, too, but it really was very obvious what had gone wrong in hindsight. And yet some doomed sense of having to prove herself as not what she was, had driven her away from her home and into a warzone while all the others like her remained behind.

Still, she liked her knives--the ones with the beautiful jewelled hilts that reflected the light like prisms when she moved them. She laid them on her bedside table.

 _You have everything you could ever want, girl? And you are unsatisfied._ The voice of her tutor haunted the back of her mind as she lay, one bare leg above the covers, airing the cut--tiny, a flesh wound, no reason for concern--on her ankle.

It was a hot night. Someone had left the fire on too long, or something, and Calima was in that uncomfortable state in which she was as just warm enough to feel uncomfortable but not so much that she would sweat. Her nightdress slipped persistently between her thighs, caressing the skin. She was fairly certain that sleep would bypass her.

She was no stranger to discomfort. Not after everything. But knowing something well didn’t keep it from being what it was.

By the sound of his breathing, it had neglected to visit her husband, too. _Well, she might as well give it a try_.

She pressed her lips against his neck, taking pleasure in the sigh that escaped his lips, and smiled as he turned to meet her gaze.

He raised his eyebrows. She shrugged. On some level, she was aware that this was not the way that people who were passionately in love communicated their carnal desires, but she brushed the feeling off. Knowing didn’t change the truth of the matter. _And what truth might that be?_

She sat up and swung a leg over his waist, pulling the nightdress off, savouring the feeling of the slippery fabric moving over her skin.

_That I need to pass the time somehow._

 

\---

 

After they were done, she lay, sweating comfortably with her naked breasts pressed up against the skin of his chest, his fingers running through her hair while she pretended he was anyone else. _Is this love?_ She thought. Subconsciously, she knew the answer. That didn’t change anything, though. It never did.

She still couldn’t sleep, and she bit her lips raw with the frustration.

 

\---

 

Morning came with a knock on the door and the sound of heavy boots against the wooden floor and the roar of a torch lit in its bracket. She opened her eyes. The light was too much for a second, and then not enough, and she met the eyes of Maglor’s lieutenant, the realisation coming that she was completely naked coming a second later. She didn’t bother to pull anything up to cover herself. Part of her liked the idea of her seeing, but she was too polite, or too loyal, and diverted her eyes.

“Morning, my lady.” Canaethor gave her a quick nod, still allowing her gaze to slip around, not truly focusing on her. “Lord.”

Maglor gave her a lazy wave.

Calima prized herself free of his embrace, an idea coming to her. “Lieutenant, would--” but Canaethor was already halfway through the doorway. Calima searched through the bed sheets for her nightdress, hoping for the respite of real tangible fabric over her skin. Maglor had disappeared off to his wardrobe. She slumped back against the pillows, some rich silk that would’ve cost a fortune, and that she would prefer cotton to any day. Of all the people, either deserving or simply _cut-out_ to become royalty, she was perhaps the least, even if she did think the knives were nice.

Having sex just to work up a proper sweat was stupid. And it was a stupid reason to bury her feelings for her husband's right-hand woman even further.

Maglor, now fully dressed, handed her one of her dresses, then kissed her on the forehead. She wound her fingers into the cool, embroidered fabric, watching him close the door behind him. Perhaps there was something psychological about all of the sensual dreams and fantasies about Canaethor--perhaps it was something every military wife knew. Maybe she should talk to someone, but that wouldn’t do anything to dampen the feelings. And who would she talk to? She was the only one.

She remembered that she first met Canaethor on the boat. A tall, thin woman who gripped the end of a spear so tight that her knuckles went white against the bronze of the rest of her skin. She’d looked wild, like an ancient goddess, or one of the tribe leaders from those old stories about the elves of Cuivienen. Her eyes were wide, shakily glancing in every direction, the adrenaline of battle still not worn off entirely. There were still moments when Canaethor reminded her of the woman she first met. She was less thin, though, and her eyes held a level coolness in battle, like hardened steel.

She sighed and got dressed.

The inside of the dress scratched against her bare legs as she walked--perhaps she should've worn some sort of undergarment, but the base felt too warm, clammy, like it needed a good snowstorm to feel habitable again. She didn't bother with shoes; the cold stone floor might cool her off. Instead, she just felt sticky when she walked across it.

The way to the war room was a familiar path. She didn’t like the place, gloomy and cold, with drafts that slipped around your ankles and caused your hair to stand on end, but she had been there hundreds of times out of necessity. She was all too aware that this was what she had signed up for the moment she first lifted a kitchen knife from the rubble of Alqualonde--the moment she had narrowed her eyes and thrown it into the back of a man waving a sword at a girl--barely an adult--hands shaking on the hilt of a sword that she’d grabbed from the nearest corpse.

The felt the familiar weight of her knives strapped to her bare thighs, accessible through slits in her dress. She loved them. Probably more than she loved her husband.

She pushed open the door to the room. Maglor and Canaethor were there alone, frowning at a sheet of parchment. Another letter, sealed in blue lay on the table, rejected in favour of the one that they were staring at.

“He can't be serious.” Maglor squinted at a sheet of parchment.

“Letter from Maedhros?” Calima folded her arms.

“He says we're to meet with the Sindar--honour old ties or something along those lines. Apparently, it was High King Fingolfin's idea.”

“And he'd never refuse his father-in-law.” Canaethor and Maglor exchanged a look; Maedhros’ romantic inclinations had become a point of amusement for the three of them. On some deep, internal level, Calima pitied the man, but outwardly it was much more fun just to make fun of the situation. It meant that they didn’t have to ever actually seriously consider anything.

“You'll go?” Calima raised her eyebrows at her husband.

“Of course; he'll need help keeping the peace. Besides, I've heard rumours--”

“Your fancies are the pettiest I've ever heard of, my Lord.”

 _Ah_ , so they were referring to the minstrel of the Doriathrim. She rolled her eyes. “Is it really so important you assert your superiority?”

“Yes.”

She and Canaethor met eyes. Perhaps her feelings were simply misinterpreted camaraderie at managing Maglor's impossible whims. Canaethor smirked. Perhaps they weren't.

Canaethor turned back to the map, “then we ought to ride soon, if we want to arrive on time.”

Maglor nodded, then left, presumably to go and pack. Calima watched him.

She wondered what it would’ve been like if they’d done things differently. If they’d waited a little longer. If they’d stayed friends until the day his family was exiled, and she could stay behind with her job and her family and never have to spare him another thought other than the occasional inside joke with no one left to share it.

She wondered what would’ve happened if they’d chosen to have a child, or to do something equally idiotic and equally domestic. Maybe they could’ve started a school together. She smiled a little at the thought, and thanked whatever force had caused her to hesitate that none of that had ever come to pass.

“My Lady?” Canaethor laid a tentative hand on her shoulder. She started.

“Yes?”

“For a moment, it seemed like you were elsewhere.”  

“I assure you, I am right here beside you.” She flushed at the sound of her own words. Taken from context, they could be something from a romantic ballad. She laid her palm over Canaethor's. For a moment, they stood like that, and she could pretend that she was _her_ woman to come home to, instead, but moments are fleeting, and she had to follow the man whose arms she wore. The magpie woven of black thread and beads hung heavy on her back, the star that hung from its tail a knife-point.

“Hopefully not for long; if you're coming, you need to be getting ready.”

“You're coming?”

“I follow my Lord wherever he goes.” There was something in the way Canaethor spoke. With that smoothness and that lilt, that made everything she said sound slightly less serious, and slightly more like teasing. It had been confusing at first, until she realised that she spoke that way to everyone.

Calima huffed. “How loyal.”

“You wouldn't do the same?” Canaethor met her eyes--storms grey with a gaze like a spark of lightning.

“No,” Calima said, turning away. “I know self-preservation.”

 

\---

 

Even out in the cold, she was hot.

In the summer, that was just how the fortress was. Just warm enough to be uncomfortable in your furs, just cold enough to still need them. Even the breeze against her skin as she sat atop her horse was only lukewarm. The scabbards of her knives were cold, though. It was truly a shame that they had to be kept from her skin by the layer of undergarments that the weather necessitated she wear.

They rode for hours before the first sign of her trouble.

It was her horse. The poor mare was exhausted, slowed and kept dragging behind. She began to worry. It only took a little while further for the stable hand to start to worry, too. He rode up alongside her and tapped her on the shoulder.

“I think we should stop.” Calima nodded. She wasn’t going to disagree with a proposition so sensible. It only took her raising her hand for the others to slow down. She dismounted, hitting the ground gently and trying to ignore the sting at her ankle. The assessment only took a minute, with Calima standing and stroking her mane to distract her from the discomfort.

The poor boy looked terrified as he approached Calima. Yet another reason she didn’t particularly enjoy being a lady. “She’s pregnant.”

“Oh, you poor girl, having to come all this way.” She sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Maglor called down.

“She’s going to have to go back, I’m afraid.” The stable hand shook his head.

“I’ll ride with Canaethor. It’ll be alright.” The others stared at her, stunned.

“Her stallion is larger.” She shrugged. Maglor shook his head, unbothered.

“Alright. As long as it’s no trouble.”

“Not at all.” Canaethor grinned, and offered her a hand, helping her to climb up. Calima wrapped her hands around the lieutenant’s waist without another thought. Canaethor was solid, strong, muscles taught to maintain her posture on the back of the stallion.

Maglor didn’t pay them any attention as they rode.

It wasn’t a particularly difficult journey, but she found herself clinging onto every second of its passing, savouring the closeness that she had with the lieutenant, her scent as they rode. She smelled like dust. Calima had no doubt that they all did. Dust and musk, the scent of their home.

Eventually, they reached a stopping place. Tents went up. The campfire was lit. Pots of food began to steam. Calima sat on a fallen tree and watched. She slipped her overcoat off, but they had journeyed far enough south that it didn’t make much of a difference in easing what she had come to refer to as her ‘fever.’

Her hands folded over her knees, she watched as people moved around, rearranging and setting things up. As Maglor pulled out one of his swords to polish, back to her, watching the perimeter.

She sat there long enough that people started to filter away to sleep. Long enough that people became afraid to talk to her--to disturb whatever mood she was in for silly things like food and drink. Long enough that Maglor disappeared off to go bed without her without realising.

She felt the weight of the log shift, and a knife was in her hand and pressed against the intruder’s throat without a moment of thought. Canaethor held up her hands. Calima lowered the knife. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” She was tempted to push her off.

“Sorry, I just thought you could use some company."

“I prefer my company alive to dead.” Calima sheathed the blade again. “But yes, yes I could.” With a sigh, she leant against Canaethor’s side. She was more comfortable there than she could ever be in bed.

“I also noticed that you didn’t eat or drink anything.” She shifted for a moment, allowing her companion to reach down into a back and lift out a bottle of whiskey and some dry crackers. “I thought I’d rectify that.”

Calima reached for the bottle first. There had been a time when she was new to the art of drinking, but war and Maglor and the cold had taught her how to press her lips around the rim of a bottle. Still hated the taste, though. The stuff they drank was watered down with snowmelt--regular alcohol was too strong and water was too risky, not that any of them had ever actually gotten sick, but it paid to be cautious.

Canaethor snatched the bottle back as she raised it up to drink, swapping it out for a handful of crackers. “Not on an empty stomach.”

“Insubordinance,” Calima laughed, then paused, “although I suppose _you_ technically outrank _me_. I don’t think ‘general’ is a title you earn by marriage.”

There was an uncomfortable pause at the reminder.

“Fine, I’ll take the crackers.” Calima took a bite. They weren’t that bad. If your definition of bad was eating worms and nothing more. She made a face.

Canaethor laughed. “If you wanted to eat something nice, you should’ve come when there was stew on offer instead of sitting around here moping.” She handed her the bottle. Calima drank graciously. It wasn’t the best, and the remnants of the crackers remained stuck to the back of her throat, but she’d take what she could get. When she handed it back, Canaethor took a swig herself. “Why the lonesome mood?” She asked, after a moment.

Calima shrugged. “Travelling, I suppose. And I don’t have Peach with me.” It was true that travelling was something she didn’t enjoy, and it was also true that she missed her horse, but that wasn’t the answer to Canaethor’s question and they both knew it.

“If you dislike Smokes that much—”

“Oh, shut up.” Calima elbowed her in the arm. “Your horse is wonderful, as are you.”

“We’re very flattered.” Canaethor laughed. Maybe it was the dying firelight, but it looked like she flushed a little as she spoke. Calima prized the bottle back from her fingers, and took what could graciously be called a sip.

“Better than walking, at least. You’re very enjoyable to ride—” She spluttered. “I meant the collective ‘you.’”

“If that’s the way you feel…” Canaethor raised her eyebrows.

“Shut up. Don’t you know the Valar can hear us?” She half-hissed, half-snickered. Internally, she tried to ignore the twist in her chest. The problem with Canaethor was that she was so damn _likeable._

“If They’re listening to our conversations, then things must be more peaceful than we thought.”

“Then we should drink to that.” Calima lifted up the bottle of whiskey. “To the Valar being so bored that they eavesdrop on us for entertainment.” Canaethor laughed as she drank, before being handed the bottle back.

Calima noted that she was starting to feel a little light-headed. Not so much that it was a problem, just enough to realise that she probably could do with eating a little more. She reached for another cracker, and took a few small bites. It was more manageable that way.

“They are grim, aren’t they?” Canaethor sighed.

“You know,” Calima mused, forcing herself to swallow, “sometimes I really wish we could just run away from all of this. I hate being a Lady, you know?”

“Then who would lead the soldiers?”

“I mean you and me.”

Canaethor stared at her. “I—”

“I mean obviously not. We have responsibilities and all that, but it would be nice to just leave all of this behind and go live in a cottage by the sea somewhere quiet. Or maybe in a forest. Or in a mountain valley.”

“Hypothetically, you could find a valley near the sea with a forest.” Canaethor said, then shook her head, “what am I saying? Obviously, that’s not a--you’re _married—”_ The way she spoke, it sounded as if it was something she had forgotten until then, “wouldn’t you miss—”

“A little, yeah.” She paused for a moment. Let Canaethor have her minute of convincing herself that she wasn’t saying what she thought she was saying. Let herself decide if she was going to say anything else. “But I think, if I went with him, I’d miss you more.”

Canaethor’s breath hitched.

Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was a stupid and reckless thing, but in that moment all Calima wanted was to kiss her. And she really hadn’t eaten enough to have been drinking whiskey, so the part of her brain that went _hey, this is a bad idea,_ had fallen fast asleep.

She leant forward, only to find the part of her mind that knew that logically she would have to share a bed with Maglor hadn’t dozed off so easily. She kissed Canaethor gently on the cheek instead.

In lieu of _I love you,_ she murmured a quick “you’re a really good friend, you know?” then stood up and stumbled her way through the dark to her tent. She really wanted to cry.

 

\---

 

At the feast, she sat next to Maglor, a practiced smile across her face. She nodded politely when his family greeted her and asked her how she was. She tried not to sound too happy, lest she seem as fake as she was.

Someone placed a glass of wine in her hand at some point, and she poured it out onto the grass at the first chance she got. She wasn’t sure how well she’d behave if she couldn’t maintain her sobriety. Not when Canaethor was all dressed up in Noldor military finery. That navy wool coat, perfectly tailored (and she knew so, because she’d done it herself, never quite forgetting her apprenticeship in Aman), and shining golden star that adorned her shoulders, holding her cloak in place.

Maglor’s gaze wandered too, though. Eyes following beautiful people with beautiful faces made of sharp points and with eyes like gemstones. She delighted in looking for the pattern in his attention. The pattern very clearly favoured men, but that didn’t bother her. Nothing bothered her. Not now.

She laid a hand on his shoulder. “Husband.”

“Yes?”

“We can't keep doing this.” She made sure to keep her voice low, so that it might be drowned out by the sound of the band. So that they may avoid strange looks and awkward questions.

“What do you mean?”

“Pretending to be in love.”

He turned to look at her, but he didn't seem shocked. He spoke as if he were simply saying the lines expected of him, “what makes you say that?”

“I think you already know that we aren’t happy like this.”

He bit his lip, then nodded.

“Do what you will.” She slipped the golden ring from her finger and handed it back to him. Watching the glint of it in the warm light of the gazebo, glistening with perfection.

He handed her back his; she savoured the feeling of the metal in her palm. Oddly, it felt cool to the touch.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! please let me know what you thought!!


End file.
